


Scales

by southernrefugee



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: ASoIaF, F/M, Kissing, Love, Marriage, Queen Sansa, Scars, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-21
Updated: 2013-08-21
Packaged: 2017-12-24 06:16:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/936392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/southernrefugee/pseuds/southernrefugee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shireen and Rickon's wedding.</p>
<p>She stood before all the court, there in the Great Sept of Baelor.  Her future husband stood to her right.  Tradition dictated that she, as the one of royal blood, should stand on the right side, but she had insisted she would stand on the left.  “For my role as a woman and a bride,” she had said.  <em>To hide my scales</em>, she had thought.  High lords and ladies from all of the Seven Kingdoms had come, packing the area behind her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scales

**Author's Note:**

> Quick little Fic I wrote for ASOIAFkinkmeme. First posted in the kink meme livejournal, then edited and posted on tumblr, now partially rewritten and posted here!
> 
> Setting is such that the Cersei’s children either died or their true parentage was found out. The war (of the Five Kings and the Ice vs Fire) are both over, and Stannis held the throne, but died defending the realm against the White Walkers. So Shireen is queen. I don’t know what the title would be for her husband, so I based it on British titles, where he would be “Prince Rickon” and “Queen Consort,” but not King. He will, however, still wield power (because he's male and that's how Westeros is). Sansa is Queen in the North, as he abdicated when he travelled south to marry Shireen. (He can’t rule from Winterfell and King’s Landing at the same time.)

She stood before all the court, there in the Great Sept of Baelor.  Her future husband stood to her right.  Tradition dictated that she, as the one of royal blood, should stand on the right side, but she had insisted she would stand on the left.  “For my role as a woman and a bride,” she had said.  _To hide my scales_ , she had thought.  High lords and ladies from all of the Seven Kingdoms had come, packing the area behind her.  Shireen knew that if she looked back, she would see the battered-but-alive Theon and Asha Greyjoy, the remaining Sand Snakes, every one of her advisers and all of the Storm Lords.  There would be the two remaining Tyrell brothers, the three-times Queen, the Queen of Thorns, and even the sickly Arryn boy.  The Night's Watch had sent a delegation, including the pardoned Ser Jorah Mormont and Lord Commander Snow.  The Queen knew her soon-to-be-husband had been thrilled to see him most of all, not to mention how the two massive wolves had reacted to seeing one another.   Lord Tyrion of Casterly Rock was given a place in the front row, as befit his status (but also so he would be able to see), and beside him stood his brother, who had been pardoned of his crimes once again.  Lord Edmure Tully stood nearby with his pregnant wife, who was holding the hand of a small girl, keeping her quiet.  The child was the last remaining Frey and heir to the Twins.  The High Septon cleared his throat, the sound echoing through the chamber, and the whispers and mutterings died, the guests growing silent as the morning light streamed through the stained glass stars.

The decision to maintain the Faith of the Seven had been recommended by nearly all of her advisers, from the Hand of the Queen (she still thought of him as the Onion Knight) to the new Mistress of Whispers (her Prince's much-feared sister and the Queen’s own newly-made friend) to the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Ser Loras Tyrell. _The small folk,_ they had said, _are still fearful of this Red God._   Later, Lady Arya had informed her that most of the highborn lords and ladies shared this opinion.   It mattered little to Shireen. It had been nearly a decade since her father died, sacrificing himself for the realms of men. Melisandre had passed as well, trading her own life for the life of Jon Snow, so Shireen had grown up in this city, surrounded by seven-pointed stars, septas, and the Small Council, barely ever hearing the name _R’hllor._   For the wedding, however, one concession had been made; a large weirwood sapling had been placed on the altar as a nod to her groom.  

As the High Septon began to speak, the young queen fidgeted slightly, her cloak tugging on her gown.  The cloak was patterned with the royal sigil, the crowned stag on a field of yellow, with a border of fiery red in memory of her father. The Queen stood straight and tall. She had grown to be fierce, smart, and beautiful.  Her intellect was fearsome, and she made many daring and effective moves when the Game reared its head.  Her sable hair cascaded down past her shoulders.  Although he had never said, she knew that her Prince liked it that way.  The ears that had been so big as a child had stayed much the same size as she grew, leaving her features proportionate.  She still had the strong jaw of her father, but puberty had shaped and softened it as the rest of her features sharpened.  She was left with a beautifully sharp and regal face, with high cheekbones, laughing eyes, and a mouth made for smiling.  The Queen blended perfectly whether she was laughing with her ladies-in-waiting at a dinner, or ordering a man’s execution (she had even been known to swing the sword, as she had done for the traitor Queen).  She was one of the most beautiful women in the realm, or so she was told. 

Shireen did not believe that for a moment.  Whenever she looked into a mirror, or a still pool of water, all she could see was the mottled grey of her neck and cheek.  The cups she used at banquets had gems and patterns, to prevent her seeing the scales in her reflection during dinner.  She had nightmares where the scales crept up her cheek and over her nose, covering her whole face.  Whenever that dream struck, she woke in terror, and had to ask the Maester for a sleeping draught.  High-necked gowns were fashionable now, as the realm took their lead from the Queen, and she wore as high a neck as possible (or a sometimes a collar) to hide the hideous scales.  In all her events, before the council, her court, or the realm, Shireen was always conscious of her movements and her stance, making sure her scales were hidden.  Even now, at her wedding, part of her mind checked and rechecked to make sure it was hidden from the crowd and her betrothed.  People had told her it mattered not, that she was the Queen, and beautiful besides. These same people would whisper about it only a few minutes later. She had few friends as a child, and had even fewer now, now that the weight of power was upon her. The closest of her friends was her Mistress of Whispers, whose eyes never avoided the terrible mark, but never lingered on it either.  She, at least, would always give Shireen the truth and barely saw the scales.  _Him too,_ she thought, glancing to her right.

The young queen looked over as the holy words were read, eyes flicking to her soon-to-be husband.  He was handsome and tall, the sunlight through the stained glass illuminating the red of his hair and the blue of his eyes.  A long, thin scar ran down the side of his face, and she could only imagine he had many more under his clothing.  The Queen blushed slightly as she imagined what else was under his clothing.  Catching her eye, he smiled faintly at her, a gesture she knew he did not take lightly. The man was hardened and strong, the lines in his face and the pain in his eyes reflecting years he had not lived, and a childhood harder than most could imagine.  A wolf the size of a horse stood to his right, standing still and looking at the High Septon (judging by the occasional nervous glances, Shireen guessed the holy man was distinctly aware of the massive canine’s attention).  Rickon had insisted that Shaggydog be present.  The Small Council had tried to persuade him otherwise, as did his own lords, and the Most Devout had tried to prevent the wedding until he gave in.  Shireen remembered him shrugging and suggesting a weirwood instead, causing the septons to quickly assure him the direwolf would be allowed inside.  Still, people had whispered.  They had said a boy with a dog, even a wolf, was one thing, but this was another. He was a boy no longer, the youth and innocence had been forced from him long ago, and some said that the creature was his last hold on sanity.  Others said it was a sign he had lost it.  Even more suggested that it was proof that the man was wild at heart, and would one day break and raid like the wildlings and eat men like the Skagosi, or perhaps he already did.  Shireen knew the truth. The wolf reminded Rickon of his family, his life, his home. The wolf kept him safe, kept him grounded. She knew that her Prince had faced more fear and danger than any other in the room, and Shaggydog had seen him through most of it.  As for being wild at heart, that part was correct.  You could dress him up as a Prince or Lord or King, and he could say the words (mostly) and play along, but in his heart, he wanted to run and fight and hunt.  He was of the North, raised by wild peoples, and the Queen knew that dinners and dances would never be his idea of a good time.  She knew, and she loved him for it.

The young queen blinked and, like that, the smile was gone, leaving behind the usual hard expression on his face as the High Septon finished off his words. They turned to face each other, and Shireen moved carefully to conceal as much of her scales as possible.  They began to recite their vows in unison, and she saw the smile in his eyes. There was something else in his eyes, an emotion Shireen rarely saw directed at her.  Even as a child, since she nearly died from greyscale, no one had looked at her like that.  Her father and mother rarely showed much affection to her (or, when they did, the girl could tell it was faked), and their eyes avoided her scales.   As a teenager, she had despaired in private, believing no one would ever get that look in their eyes when they saw her.  She had been terrified of dying alone, unloved.  Then she met Rickon.  They had courted slowly, but it was clearly meant to be (who a better match for the Queen on the Iron Throne than the King in The North?)  After a few months, when he saw her after a long absence, and Shireen saw his eyes light up, she had nearly cried with joy.  A few weeks later, he had said the words, the first time he had uttered that phrase since he was three years old, with the exception of the day the wilding women had died.  He did not say it often, as the words were difficult for him, but she knew he meant it.  The Prince had been a hero in the war, despite his age, and had been critical in rebuilding Winterfell and the North. He had been a fair and just ruler (however briefly he ruled) and was much loved by his people.  His victories in battle were as legendary as the stories about him and his wild side.  But the young queen also saw the pain in those blue irises, the darkness. A childhood amongst wildlings, his formative years on the run, all those he loved being ripped away from him…   _No one comes back,_ she recalled her betrothed saying years before, an inhuman level of sadness shining in his eyes.  But Shireen was here for him, she would always come back, and she knew her Prince knew that. His eyes showed his love, and even a spark of happiness.

The royal pair finished naming the gods, and added two lines relating to the Old Gods and the beliefs and customs of The North, eliciting a frown from the old High Septon.  In an adaptation of the custom, she moved forward, reaching for the sliver pin on her Prince’s doublet. Shireen fumbled slightly as she felt his breath on her cheek.  She glanced up, seeing the love in his eyes once more, and slipped the pin off his chest.  Ser Davos, the man ‘giving her away,’ handed the young queen the second pin, a gold and onyx stag alongside another silver wolf.  Shireen ran her fingers over her betrothed’s chest as she pushed the new pin in place.  She glanced up once more, the deep sapphire eyes catching her own.  The Queen blushed as her groom broke from the plan and kissed her gently on the forehead.  After a moment, she stepped back and saw a hint of mischief beside the love twinkling in his eyes.  The script and plan meant nothing to him, the eyes said, and he would kiss her if he wanted.

Shireen felt him move behind her, and those rough, skilled hands, more accustomed to slicing through armor and flesh with a blade than holding a woman, were surprisingly deft as he gently unfastened her cloak. He pulled it from her shoulders and handed it to Jon Snow.  When Rickon had asked his brother (well, cousin, technically) to stand beside him, the Lord Commander had said he needed to think on it, given their custom of taking no part.  But, as this was a union between the two nations of Westeros, he had agreed.  After all, the man had turned down his right to be King in The North and the chance to be the King on the Iron Throne.  No one could doubt his duty to his order.  The young queen cocked her head slightly to the left, minutely turning her face to the right to keep as much of her scales hidden as she could.  Her betrothed took the second cloak as it was handed to him, a stag and a wolf together sewn across the fabric. That had been difficult to decide.  What were their sigils?  What were their names?  She was the Queen, but he was the man, and children named Stark should not rule both nations. The maesters and septons had debated for days, before deciding they and their children would be both Baratheons and Starks (and use whichever they preferred for each occasion), but their grandchildren would have to choose, and would have duties reflecting said choice.  Rickon fastened the cloak around her neck, his fingers trailing over the mottled flesh.  Shireen was disgusted, terrified that her Prince had touched her there; she worried he was mocking her, or worse, would grow to hate it like she did, his eyes either avoiding the scales or always staring.  However, as he pulled back, she swore she saw his lips twitch upwards, and there was no mistaking the same love in his eyes.

The High Septon said the words, and a smile lit up the Queen’s face, even her scales moving slightly.  She gave a quick glance to the High Septon to her left, knowing he could see all her scales, but quickly refocused on her Prince.  Her husband faced her and he stepped forward, leaning down gently. The love in his eyes was clear, and her heart pounded in her chest.  This was the moment she had been waiting for all her life.  Shireen closed her eyes, pursing her lips.

Shireen was barely able to contain a shriek as she felt strong arms pull her around.  _NO_ , a voice inside her screamed. _They will see!  They will all see!_   A hand went up, moving to cover her scales, as the Queen began to pull away.  _What is this trick_ , she thought in horror.  Was her Prince doing this to her?  Was he trying to make a fool of her, humiliate her in front of her court?  Suddenly, all her thoughts were silenced as an electric tingle ran through her body. 

The crowd gasped as his lips touched not her mouth, but her jaw—the exact center, and darkest part, of her scales. Deadened nerves seemingly reawoke as her Prince kissed her _there._   She gasped in shock, her eyes flashing open, and they caught one of his. Mischief and love, so much love, twinkled in the dark, hard blue, as Prince Rickon kissed the mark again, making sure his wife knew what he meant. Tears wet Queen Shireen’s eyes, and she held herself straight, choking back a happy sob. No one ever kissed her there. No one ever touched her there. No one ever looked there, not when they thought she could see. And here he was, her Prince, kissing the part of her no one (not even the Queen herself) loved. He moved back a few inches, his lips moving to form a near-imperceptible, but undeniable, smile. Their lips met and she melted into Rickon’s strong, protective embrace.  The crowd cheered, their clapping echoing alongside their words through the sept’s great dome.  Her husband held her tightly, pulling her close.  As the kiss broke, and the royal couple—heads held high—turned to face the crowd, Shireen heard him whisper, without hesitation, “I love you.”  For the first time, she knew he meant all of her.

**Author's Note:**

> (In my head, as they kiss, Shaggydog is licking the back of Shireen’s head, but I thought saying that might kill the mood.)  
> (Also, in my head, they ride Shaggydog out of the Sept)
> 
> Feedback is appreciated! Still kinda new to (writing) fanfiction!


End file.
